


Caol Ila

by choir



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jazz Age, Bassist Akaashi, M/M, Singer Bokuto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bokuto meets Akaashi at a bar, and they make music together.</p>
<p>It all goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whiskey

The first thing Bokuto notices: Akaashi has a thing for Caol Ila.

The bar provides each band with a drink, if they please, and Akaashi’s is always the same: whiskey on the rocks, naming liquors Bokuto didn’t even know existed. He seems to have a preference for single malt, however; Lagavulin, Dailuaine, and Cardhu are ones he can think of him mentioning, even if he’s sure he isn’t pronouncing any of them right.

He tries them all, but finds he can’t swallow the taste of dark liquor, as much as he can’t handle his alcohol at all. Instead, he watches as Akaashi’s fingers run through the condensation that gathers on the side of the scotch glass, and tries to remember how to breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

Akaashi is a bassist that plays in a band on Fridays, after Bokuto’s. An adjective Bokuto would equate to Akaashi is strong, or perhaps _nimble_ would be a better word; he leads his quartet with a quiet fervor, weaving through overused songs with a talent that Bokuto hasn’t seen in years. He plays piano, too, but when Bokuto watches him, the furrow of his eyebrows is lighter when he’s at his bass, cheeks tinted red in concentration or excitement — Bokuto never knows.

Akaashi knows Bokuto professionally, of course; they’ve exchanged a few words before and after sets, but Bokuto is often too stunned to get more out than an enthusiastic _that was great!_ to which Akaashi always has the same, humble reply: _thank you very much_. If asked, Bokuto can’t answer when he started purposefully staying later just to watch Akaashi play.

He doesn’t like to think that he’s obsessed with Akaashi’s music, but he definitely is, he realizes one day with a grimace. He barely knows the guy, really, beyond his odd obsession with expensive whiskey and his even stranger bandmates, consisting of a quiet pianist, a cunning saxophonist, and a singer with long, jet-black hair.

Still, still — he imprisons Konoha and Tsukki after a few of their shows to watch Akaashi (“he’s _amazing_ ,” Bokuto gushes to them), but they don't seem nearly as captivated. He overhears Konoha telling Tsukki that Bokuto is a better singer, and the only really amazing one is Akaashi and the saxophonist. Bokuto scowls, tells them both that they don't understand music, sulking for the rest of the evening until Konoha drags Bokuto out to dance.

It doesn’t take long for his irritation to be momentarily forgotten, thrown into the air when even Tsukki joins them, later.

But when he twirls and grins, he catches Akaashi looking at him, and it makes his throat go dry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a few weeks for Bokuto to work up the nerve to say more than a quick compliment to Akaashi. In actuality, it wasn’t even _his_ nerve – Tsukki pushes him across the bar after he spends ten minutes staring instead of listening to Konoha’s ideas for their next set.

He’s nervous, fidgeting on his way over. Akaashi is drinking Caol Ila again, long fingers tapping against the glass, composing some unknown song. Too distracted by the sight, Bokuto tries to play it off when he trips over a loose floorboard and practically tumbles into the barstool next to Akaashi, but his amused expression doesn’t escape Bokuto’s notice. Bokuto flushes, just slightly.

“Hello,” Bokuto offers a polite smile, not quite unable to suppress the bursting feeling in his chest. “I’ve never really introduced myself! I’m Bokuto. I play—”

“Yes,” Akaashi says cooly, “you’re the singer. With Konoha-san and Tsukishima.”

“Oh, you knew.” Bokuto laughs sheepishly, even while his nervousness fades. “I just wanted to say that you’re amazing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, was that too forward?” Bokuto draws back a bit, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been watching you play for weeks now, and you’re really, really good!”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says.

An awkward silence falls between them while Bokuto looks expectantly at Akaashi, waiting for him to continue the conversation. It takes a few moments of staring for Bokuto to realize Akaashi isn’t saying anything else; his confidence wavers, and he’s close to opening his mouth to mumble out a quick _thanksgoodbye!_ before Akaashi coughs, interrupting his train of thought.

“So,” Akaashi starts, and Bokuto perks up immediately, “how long have you been singing for?”

“Years!” Bokuto grins, but he drops his gaze and fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “Since my first word, my parents joke. I took classes later, though.”

“I can see that,” Akaashi says, and Bokuto swears he sees him smile, even just slightly, “you look very comfortable up there.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a smile — Akaashi is making a face at the pianist on stage who is straying a bit too far from the tempo set by the drummer and bassist. Bokuto follows his line of sight, surprised at his irritated expression.

“Oh, yeah, I am!” Bokuto says, and Akaashi’s focus slides back to him while he takes a quiet sip of his whiskey, “performing is fun. It feels good to sing, a lot. And dance, I mean, cause”—his brain quickly trips into overdrive, and he feels his mouth take off before he can regain control—“it’s flashy, and cool, and everyone’s eyes are on you. You’ve watched me perform, right?”

“I have, a few times.” Akaashi sits upright in his seat, and Bokuto tries not to squirm under Akaashi’s intense gaze. “Don’t you play other instruments as well?”

“I do, but Tsukki and Konoha normally play them for me so I can sing, ‘cause it’s my favorite!” Bokuto grins, spinning in his chair once for flair. “But I play a lot of instruments. When Tsukki sings, he normally sticks me on sax. Or drums. Or piano. I don’t know, it normally depends — Konoha picks out our music, or composes it! I normally just write the lyrics.”

“That’s impressive,” Akaashi hums, finishing the last of his drink, ice clinking together. “You play a lot of instruments fluently.”

“Oh.” Bokuto pauses before smiling wide again — Akaashi, _Akaashi_ the great bassist had just complimented him. His heart swells, and from behind Akaashi, Konoha gives him a thumbs up. Tsukki, ever the optimist, punctuates Konoha’s encouragement with a complimentary eye roll.

That was probably about as much of a push Tsukki would ever give, so Bokuto continues talking, spurred on by his bandmates.

“I guess,” Bokuto adds, trying not to sound as over-confident as he felt, “but none of us can play bass well. And Tsukki and Konoha get really mad because I improvise a lot.”

“Is that so,” Akaashi says, looking pensive. “Perhaps we should all play together sometime.”

Feeling his eyes widen, Bokuto lunges forward, promptly forgetting about personal space as he forces his face close to Akaashi’s. “You mean it?” he first asks, voice quiet.

Then, again, louder: “Akaashi, you want to play with me?”

“I—” Akaashi blinks a few times before the look of shock passes from his expression, “yes. I think you’re a good singer, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to combine our performances to attract a larger crowd.”

Bokuto can’t believe his luck.

**  
**

 

 

 

Later:

“You weren’t thinking about serenading him, were you?” Tsukki deadpans, giving Bokuto his fifth _why are you my bandmate?_ look that night. As far as Tsukki went, that was pretty good.

“Of course I was!” Bokuto huffs indignantly, wrapping an arm around Konoha’s shoulders. They’re on stage, now, setting up for their time slot, but Bokuto feels excess energy thrumming through him and he’s spent more time fiddling with his drumsticks than hooking up wires. “I know I was supposed to be on drums today at the beginning, but can we do that at the end?”

Konoha outs out a deep sigh, rolling up his sleeves as he wipes a cloth across the piano keys. “You want to dance, don’t you?”

“Just for a bit,” Bokuto admits.

Konoha just hands him the mic. “You better be good up there, then.” A pause. “For Akaashi, especially.”

“I gotta impress him if we’re going to all play together,” Bokuto nods, running off to connect microphone cable to the mixer. “If I do badly, kick me off stage, okay? I don’t want Akaashi to change his mi—”

“Bokuto, that’s the wrong cable.”

**  
**

(“He’s getting too excited, isn’t he,” Konoha says, watching Bokuto dance in place while he fiddles with the volume knob on the preamplifier, talking softly into the mic.

“About this Akaashi person?” Tsukishima asks. The mouthpiece brush in his hand pauses against his sax.

“Yeah.” Konoha shakes his head, shrugging. “But as long as he sings like normal, it should be fine.”

Tsukishima steals a glance at Bokuto; he’s moved to the amplifier settings, spinning on his heels as he does it. Tsukishima can’t find it in himself to respond.

Bokuto gives his most flashy performance yet, drawing in a bigger crowd than last week, and they both think that maybe Bokuto’s obsession is for the best.)

 

* * *

 

“How long have you been working with Konoha-san?” Akaashi asks. It’s a few weeks after they first talked, and while playing together has been brought up again a few times, Bokuto finds that he’s fine with just enjoying Akaashi’s company; so far, anyway. They only see each other once a week.

They’re sitting at the bar again, an hour before Bokuto goes up, Bokuto making a face at the whiskey Akaashi said he might like, Dalwhinnio or something. He doesn’t like it —  instead of the the taste being … how had Akaashi described it? fruity? full of spice? it tasted like drinking toilet fire-water with an uncomfortable cinnamon aftertaste.

“What?” Bokuto asks, staring at the offending liquor. His stomach is warm from barely half the glass, and it churns uncomfortably at the thought of drinking more.

“If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it.” Akaashi raises an eyebrow. Bokuto tries not to think about Akaashi’s lips pressed up against the cup, right where his had been.

“No, it’s just...” Bokuto trails off. “I always see you drinking this stuff. So I was curious. But it’s not as amazing as I thought it would be.”

“Acquired taste.”

“Is it weird that I don’t like alcohol?” Bokuto wrinkles his nose, rubbing his neck.

“Considering you mainly perform in bars, a bit,” Akaashi replies, “but not a bad thing. Though, Bokuto-san, I asked you a question. I’m genuinely curious.”

“Konoha and I have known each other since we were kids,” Bokuto blurts out, pushing his glass to Akaashi. Alcohol settles heavy in his limbs, making his lips feel numb; he gives Akaashi a cheeky smile.

“That’s why you dance so well together,” Akaashi mutters, and Bokuto thinks that it might be more to himself.

“Well, he taught me how to dance, sort of. Not the crazy stuff — that was all me!”

“I see. I don’t dance too well. Two of my bandmates are more into that sort of thing.”

“You should let me teach you,” Bokuto says. Talking to Akaashi feels easy, and not just from the alcohol; he likes walking into the bar on Friday nights and seeing Akaashi there, quiet and contemplative, so willing to talk to him.

Akaashi makes a face. “I don’t think that would end well. I’m not coordinated.”

“It’s not about coordination!” Bokuto exclaims, slamming his hand down. “It’s about—”

“I’m pretty sure it’s about coordination.”

“No, no, you gotta have passion!”

“Passion can’t make up for what you’ve learned, Bokuto,” Akaashi says, slightly exasperated.

“Maybe not,” Bokuto says, but he thinks of Akaashi’s small smile when he plays, the smug grin when Kuroo takes off to the front, spinning in front of their singer and through the audience, and wonders if it comes pretty close.

**  
**

 

 

(“What the fuck is toliet fire-water?” Tsukki asks the next day over dinner.

“I don’t know,” Bokuto gags, shoveling salmon into his mouth, “but it was the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bokuto misses a performance one week — Konoha and Tsukki hold him down when he refuses bedrest, fever wilting his brain into mush when they try to talk sense into him.

 _Akaashi had said we should meet his bandmates this week_ , Bokuto hears himself argue. _If we don’t go, we can’t meet them._

Some part of him, perhaps the delirious, intelligent part that’s conveniently floating outside of his body at the moment, remarks that there is _no way_ he can work his charm on Akaashi this way; it would be better to stay put.

Apparently he says it outloud, because Konoha quickly agrees, pressing the cold cloth back down onto his forehead.

 

It actually works out in the end: when he sees Akaashi next, Akaashi asks him, voice laced with worry (he briefly thinks of Tsukki scowling, saying _you’re imagining worry on Akaashi-san’s face, aren’t you_ in an accusing tone), where he was last week; Bokuto tells him he was sick before he flexes and poses, saying he’s all better now.

What really knocks the wind out of his throat is when Akaashi sighs, giving him the smallest smile Bokuto’s ever seen — a slight, slight twitch of his lips — and a quiet, _I’m glad you’re feeling better. It’s good to see you._

He wants to feel something less than jovial for the next three hours, but hey, he just realized that his presence _matters_ to Akaashi and he isn’t sure how to deal with the knowledge that somehow, in some way, Akaashi missed _him_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“This is Kuroo, Kozume—” ‘Kozume’ gives Akaashi a look, “—Kenma, and Shimizu.” Akaashi introduces the next week, sweeping an arm over his band.

Bokuto offers them all a wide grin, waving politely. “I’m Bokuto! This is Konoha and Tsukki.”

“Tsukishima,” Tsukki corrects, shaking hands with them all.

“Akaashi wanted to talk about this combined performance,” Kuroo says. After a few moments, he adds with a slightly smug smile, “especially after the great performance Bokuto gave last week. What a crowd pleaser!”

Akaashi shoots Kuroo a level stare. “Kuroo _means_ to say that we would be honored to work with you.”

“Of course!” Bokuto wraps his arms around Tsukki and Konoha’s shoulders, pulling them closer to him. “This should be super fun!”

“Konoha-san, I was told that you and Tsukishima primarily decide the music you play,” Akaashi says.

Konoha untangles himself from Bokuto’s grip, nodding. “We would give Bokuto some power, but he normally takes off without us if he doesn’t have at least some instruction.”

Bokuto is about to protest before Kuroo lets out a laugh. “I like this guy, Akaashi.”

“You like everyone, Kuroo,” Kenma and Shimizu almost say simultaneously; Tsukki snorts into his hand.

Akaashi sighs, rubbing his temples. “I was actually thinking that Bokuto-san should sing a duet.”

“With you?” Bokuto immediately asks, eyes wide. Konoha not-so-subtly elbows him in the side, earning a quiet _ouch!_ that Bokuto covers up with a jump.

“No, I was thinking Shimizu.”

“I didn’t even know you sing.”

“I don’t. Normally.” Akaashi frowns, casting a quick look at Kuroo.

“Back in the day, Akaashi and I would sing all the time!” Kuroo slaps Akaashi on the back, ignoring Akaashi’s increasingly murderous glare. “He has such a deep voice, you know, it really makes for _sensual_ singing—”

Kenma kicks him. Kuroo yelps, and Akaashi looks away, pretending he didn’t notice.

“Shimizu it is!” Konoha cuts in, effectively ending the meeting.

Bokuto is stuck staring, wondering what Kuroo has heard in their shared past — it sticks to him for the rest of the evening, curiosity a visceral feeling in his gut, the sharp teeth of it gnawing at his stomach.

 

 

* * *

 

It takes a while, but Akaashi realizes how punchy and excessive Bokuto’s dancing really is a few weeks after they meet. Distantly, he wonders if what Bokuto said — passion over coordination — was really right, in his case.

He’s playing, trying to focus on the way Kuroo swings around with his sax, practically shouting out his notes, but his eyes are focused on Bokuto. He’s dancing with his pianist — Konoha, he faintly remembers, feeling his fingers slide across the strings of his bass faster, forcing his band to keep up.

Bokuto raises an eyebrow, a look of challenge flashing across his face when he sends a sideways glance at Akaashi. Grabbing Konoha’s hands, he kicks a single leg up at a time, pulling him in closer. They swivel against each other, and Akaashi feels his eyes go wide when Bokuto lifts Konoha up, spinning him around quickly. Konoha twirls away from Bokuto before they both shake their hips, grabbing each other's hands and sliding closer, kicking their legs up again, as if they’d been dancing together for years.

Together, they circle to the middle of the bar, Konoha’s back to Bokuto’s chest, hands gripping Bokuto’s wrists, throwing their feet out and back in at a quickening pace. Around them, people slow to a stop, watching in awe, before someone starts to clap to the rhyme, spreading throughout the room until it’s almost deafening. Bokuto, to his credit, merely smirks, looking at Konoha with a glint in his eyes.

Akaashi barely notices his quartet struggling to keep up with his tempo, entirely too focused on the almost violent way Bokuto and Konoha fling themselves at and away from each other. When Konoha takes the lead, spinning Bokuto around him, Akaashi notices how graceful Bokuto becomes when he follows Konoha’s steps, exactly foot for foot.

They’re breathing in sync, or at least he thinks they are; Konoha and Bokuto are staring at each other, expressions serious but alight with emotion at the same time. Through Konoha’s lead, he dips, throws, and shakes Bokuto around, leading him all across the dance floor. When Konoha wraps an arm around Bokuto’s waist, forcing him into a wilder version of a waltz, Bokuto laughs, leaving Akaashi somewhat breathless. Bokuto throws his head back as they dance in uneven circles, shouting in glee.

Akaashi hears himself slowing down, letting Kenma take the ending, fingers skimming across piano keys, but he’s still staring at Bokuto, who is separating himself from Konoha’s grip, bowing with a huge smile on his face, sweat beading down the side of his brow. Bokuto throws his hands up, waving at the crowd, and turns to tip an invisible hat at Akaashi and his band. Konoha rolls his eyes next to him, arms crossed on his chest, but he’s breathing just as hard, excitement visibly running through him.

Akaashi swallows thickly when they start the next song, calmer this time, as Konoha pulls Bokuto in for a slow dance. They smile at each other before dancing over to Tsukishima, who gets quickly pulled in.

 _An interesting trio_ , Akaashi tells himself.


	2. Virtuoso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! I hope everyone had a great 2015.

Akaashi asks a lot of questions about Tsukki and Konoha — how they all got to playing together, how he officially met Tsukki, how him and Konoha became friends. He’s truly fascinated by it all, and Bokuto doesn’t think he’s ever spent so much time talking about how he managed to swindle Tsukki into joining his and Konoha’s ragtag team to the odd musical phases he went through in high school.

“Tsukki went to college with us,” Bokuto says. He’s slowly come to terms with the fact that he will probably never enjoy whiskey, and instead settles on soda to sip while he talks with Akaashi. “I took a class with Konoha, but, wait, I don’t remember the name — Music 20, I think it was. ‘ _Introduction to Jazz._ ’ But it wasn’t really an introduction. The professor was really hard, I remember. He totally expected everyone be able to play an instrument really well beforehand.”

“You weren’t into jazz before?” Akaashi asks, pursing his lips. Bokuto resists the overwhelming urge to kiss that look off Akaashi’s face.

“I liked classical, honestly.”

Akaashi stares at him with a single raised eyebrow.

“What!”

“Nothing, I—” Akaashi covers his mouth with a hand, shoulders shaking, and Bokuto realizes in awe that he’s _laughing;_  silently, but his eyes are shut tight, and he looks like he’s struggling to breathe. Between his fingers, Bokuto sees the redness of his tongue and the way his teeth drag across his bottom lip in an attempt at a semblance of composure.

Something twists painfully in his gut at the sight.

“That isn’t funny,” Bokuto whines, and when he pouts, he sees Akaashi’s eyes widen. “I wanted to be a maestro. It was basically my dream.”

“A maestro? Really?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto mumbles, a warm feeling rising into his chest. He feels like he just admitted a secret that he shouldn’t have, chucked out into the room for Akaashi to see, even if it’s just a simple childhood dream.

Akaashi gives him his first real smile, eyes suddenly immensely fond, and Bokuto’s heart decides that it is a great time to take off and lodge itself in his throat. “But you fell in love with playing jazz, huh.” It’s soft, the way Akaashi says it, and it’s not a question more than a statement of fact.

“I did,” Bokuto admits. “Jazz is so—freeing, you know? So, my professor, he partners us all up at the beginning of the semester and Konoha and I randomly get Tsukki. He was so frustrating, I totally thought that he was the biggest smug asshole, you know!”

“I’m sure he was put off by yours and Konoha’s antics, as well.”

“There were no antics, Akaashi! Back me up here!”

“Okay, okay.” Akaashi takes a quick sip of his drink — Caol Ila, again; if Bokuto were to drink it, would he know the taste of Akaashi’s mouth? — before resting his chin in his hands, indicating for Bokuto to continue.

“It took a solid month for Tsukki to practice with us!” Bokuto says, exasperated at the memory. “He’s two years younger, so he was polite, but at the time, it was in a rude, sort of biting way. Though, it seemed like after he heard Konoha and I play, he was more willing to compromise. Maybe we showed him the light.”

Akaashi leans closer. “The light, huh."

Bokuto jumps, blinking quickly before regaining his posture. “Uh—yeah! After we first played together, he started coming over more, and, well, I guess we never stopped. He said no to a band at first, so I composed a song asking him to join, and Konoha and I sang it!”

“That sounds a bit embarrassing. How did you rope Konoha into that one?”

“I happen to have an immense amount of charm, Akaashi!” He conveniently ignores Akaashi’s timed eyeroll. “Tsukki said he’d join if we stopped singing, though, so it worked out just fine.”

“You could have still been a conductor.”

“Yeah, but whenever Konoha and Tsukki play with me, I feel _that moment_. The one that got me hooked on music in the first place. Not just jazz.”

The music in the background slows, and Akaashi gives him a short nod in agreement before he gets distracted by the band, fingers tapping out the tempo against his thigh. It happens often, the glassy eyed look that appears when Akaashi focuses in on the performers. He begins to tap out _one, two, three —_

“Do you know how to waltz?” Bokuto asks.

“No.”

“You should let me teach you.”

“You want to teach me a lot of things, Bokuto.” Akaashi gives him a small smirk.

“Well—”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

It isn’t often Bokuto is stunned to silence, and he wonders if it's bad how easily Akaashi manages to delicately squeeze the all air out of his lungs, so to speak.

But the universe seems to be on his side today; before Bokuto can completely humiliate himself by awkwardly staring with his mouth flapping open and closed like a dying fish, Konoha is sauntering over to them with Tsukki in tow. Any previous conversation almost instantly gets caught between them, banter shooting back and forth over Bokuto’s head.

Konoha apologizes to Akaashi after a few minutes, but Akaashi waves him off.

“Tsukishima,” Akaashi says, “if you ever get sick of these two, you are welcome to join me.”

Bokuto and Konoha shout _hey!_ at the same time, but Tsukishima shakes his head. “Thank you for the offer,” he says, pushing at Bokuto’s face, “but I think these two would be dead without me.”

Akaashi just gives Tsukishima a small, all knowing smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Every week Bokuto learns something new about Akaashi, and he realizes that there are many things you can know about a person.

Akaashi hates the smell of nail polish and perfume; he sneezes easily when there’s dust; his cheeks turn a warm shade of dusted pink when he has more than one glass of whiskey; he doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s with his entire body, shoulders relaxing and eyes wrinkling at the edges; he went through multiple phases of wanting to be a doctor; he always saves Bokuto a barstool if Bokuto gets there too late.

Bokuto isn’t known for being the observant one, but he feels overly analytical in how he approaches Akaashi. He finds himself waiting for the softness in Akaashi’s voice when he talks about his band, any indication of a compliment, even for the quiet amusement (or exasperation) when Bokuto gets agitated that Akaashi and him don’t agree on the best way to eat meat.

(Which, of course, is grilled.)

He gets told by both Konoha and Tsukki that he’s at a standstill, and if he wants anything more from Akaashi he needs to stop freezing up whenever he attempts to flirt — but Bokuto _likes_ where they are now, officially friends in a vague grey area. He likes that Akaashi smiles at him and laughs a bit more now. It’s never as often as he would like, but it’s _there_.

There are still awkward silences at Bokuto’s attempted jokes, and sometimes they give up on conversation to listen to the band play, but it’s enough for Bokuto to keep putting it off. In some way, the romantic part of how he feels for Akaashi just isn’t as important as how captivating he is.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says that Friday, “we should talk about our joint performance.”

“Oh. Um, now?” Bokuto asks. He had been dancing in front of Akaashi in an attempt to drag him out to the dance floor, and he stops suddenly, worried.

“No,” Akaashi continues. “Let’s get coffee tomorrow.”

Bokuto freezes.

“...Bokuto?”

Bokuto jolts to life, realizing that he’s been staring for way longer than what is publically acceptable. “I, ah, well…”

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine.” Akaashi seems so damn _calm_ , how can he manage to stay in control —

“I want to,” Bokuto almost shouts, and a few heads turn to look at them.

“Okay.” Akaashi gives him a small smile.

“If,” Bokuto takes a massive gulp of air, steeling his resolve before thrusting out his hand at Akaashi, “you dance with me. I’ll go if you waltz with me.”

“Smooth.” Akaashi doesn’t make any move to stand up, but the corner of his lip curls up in a smirk.

“Hey!” Bokuto sulks, but retracts his hand with a grumble. “Fine, you don’t have to.”

“I never said I wouldn’t.” Akaashi is out of the barstool before Bokuto realizes what’s going on, linking his arm with Bokuto’s. “But you’ll have to lead. Teach me, remember?”

Bokuto isn’t sure if he’s going to combust from embarrassment or how Akaashi holds hands with him like it’s natural, barely making a sound when Bokuto presses their chests together — _the proper form is this way_ , he says nervously, and it’s not a lie — before he carefully curls his arm above the small of Akaashi’s back.

“Um,” his eyes flicker nervously from Akaashi’s face to their intertwined fingers. “Now — wrap your left arm around my shoulder.”

Akaashi nods, but lets his fingers glide over Bokuto’s arm before settling by his neck. Bokuto resists the urge to shiver.

“This is just a box step. It’s pretty simple. The beat is step, two, three; except we’ll be turning a bit as we do it. I’m going to step forward with my right foot, okay?” Bokuto flashes a smile, feeling his confidence return in waves. “As we do that, you’re going to step back, and I’m going to turn you to the right! Then, we’re going to do the same with the other foot, so we’ll end up with our feet mostly together. I’ll just do one step first. Ready?”

Akaashi furrows his eyebrows, shuffling his feet in what Bokuto thinks is nervousness. Bokuto waits, and eventually Akaashi nods.

“Alright, here.”

Bokuto steps forward on the first beat, holding Akaashi tightly as he gently turns them to the right; he nearly steps on Akaashi’s feet both times he pushes his own forward.

Akaashi laughs a bit when Bokuto stills, hot air brushing against Bokuto’s cheeks. “I’m not very good at this, am I?

“Hey, I didn’t get it right on my first time, so don’t worry!”

“You definitely did.”

“Okay—I did.”

Akaashi bites his lip, but Bokuto can see the amusement playing out on his expression.

“I’m going to step back now, with my left, so you’ll be stepping forward with your right. We’ll still turn right again, though, like last time. Okay?”

Akaashi meets Bokuto’s eyes, heavy-lidded and focused, before he nods again; Bokuto instinctively squeezes Akaashi’s hand a bit tighter.

Bokuto steps back, gripping Akaashi’s waist, as Akaashi half-stumbles with his right foot. Bokuto pauses, but Akaashi is already moving forward with his left and Bokuto grins at him, resisting the urge to lift him off the ground and spin when their legs are together again.

“Much better.”

“I try.”

“The next part is the left-hand turn.”

Akaashi lets out a quiet groan, resting his forehead against Bokuto’s shoulder for a few moments, just breathing.

 _Don’t let your voice crack, don’t let your voice betray the fact that you’re_ sure _he can hear how fast your heart is beating, Bokuto, don’t do it —_

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Bokuto tries to laugh it off, but anxiety presses his mouth into a firm line.

“No,” Akaashi murmurs, finally raising his head. “It’s not bad at all.”

 _Fuck_.

If Akaashi stumbles more on this part due to having to cross his feet over each other, well, he doesn’t complain when Bokuto compensates by holding him even closer.

 

 

* * *

 

  

The coffee place Akaashi chooses is small, nestled in the corner between two side streets with little foot traffic. There’s a piano in the corner, untouched for what seems like a while, and the only ambiance is the quiet shuffle of newspapers and the occasional hum of the coffee machine. The silence seems deafening to Bokuto; he feels as if he’s suddenly watching the world go by through a window instead of being an integral part of it.

He had told Konoha and Tsukki about Akaashi’s invite last night, nervousness strung through his hands like a thin rope threatening to break, and they declined to join him. Bokuto thinks about Tsukki’s smug smile, instead telling him how _great_ of a dance teacher Bokuto had been, and feels something tug at his heart.

It doesn’t help that Akaashi already makes him feel highs and lows almost simultaneously, nervous and proud and unsure and happy all at the same time — it makes his head spin, makes him want to make more music to get rid of the anxious buzzing feeling under his skin.

“Bokuto?” Akaashi’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and he’s surprised he doesn’t leap out his seat immediately.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto grins, insecurities thrown out the window. His heart feels light, somehow, and he can’t stop thinking about how Akaashi had willingly danced with him last night.

“Let me get something to drink,” he mutters, rubbing sleep away from his eyes. It occurs to Bokuto that he’s never seen Akaashi at any time before dusk, and like this, his expressions seem so much clearer. “Are you going to get anything?”

“I don’t like coffee,” Bokuto admits, laughing sheepishly.

“No alcohol, no coffee…” Akaashi gives him an amused look, an eyebrow raising.

“I—it’s okay!” Bokuto quickly replies. “I’ll get, um … juice or something. Later.”

“You should have told me, I could have recommended somewhere else.”

“Well, I figured coffee shops are the best place to … collaborate, or something, right? Even though I’ve never really worked in one.”

Akaashi laughs briefly. “I get your point, Bokuto.”

After they sit by a window table at Bokuto’s insistence, Bokuto tries not to be overly disappointed when Akaashi keeps their talk mostly professional, brainstorming what songs they could choose (Bokuto thought they’d just improvise, like he’s done in the past with other bands), what Bokuto would like to sing with Shimizu (he is fine with anything), and if he’d like to get lunch after this.

Wait.

“Lunch?” Bokuto echos, everything Akaashi said previously flying out of his head as if it never existed.

“Perhaps I should talk to Konoha about this,” Akaashi sighs, and Bokuto is about to pout before he sees the telltale twitching of his lips, fighting a smile. “I came late, and it’s practically one. We might as well. There’s a fish market open today.”

A few of Konoha’s reminders flash in his head — _our fridge is empty_ and _make sure to ask Akaashi to lunch!_ — but his eyes still go wide. “Really?”

“Well,” Akaashi says, standing and collecting the many pages of music scattered out on the table, “would you like to go with me?”

“Only if you aren’t upset that I didn’t pay attention to much of what we were talking about just now,” Bokuto mumbles, even if he’s grateful for the distraction from boring logistics.

“No,” Akaashi says, looking pensive. “I’m not.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Are you going to cook for me, too? Is that why we're going to the market?” Bokuto sways back on his heels when he pushes his chair in, giddiness making his fingers twitch.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I was hoping to _buy_ a cooked meal.”

“So you can cook!”

“I really can’t,” Akaashi grumbles, rubbing his forehead as he pushes the manila folders into his book bag. “Konoha tells me you’re not bad, though.”

“Akaashi!” Bokuto gasps, practically bouncing out the door of the cafe when Akaashi opens it. “That was one of my secrets I was hoping to _show_ you, not tell you!”

“I don’t really mind learning it either way.”

“So you want me to cook for you?” Bokuto’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Perhaps some day.”

Bokuto again wonders how he ever got so lucky.

 

 

* * *

 

  

Surprisingly enough, Akaashi takes their lunch break as seriously as he did as their talk at the coffee shop, surfing through dozens of stands selling various sushi and salmon dishes before settling on the spicy crab, almost an hour after they arrive at the piers. Bokuto buys mackerel for Konoha and Tsukki, stifling his laughter at Akaashi’s disgusted face when he sees the price.

Bokuto never expected Akaashi to be the type of person to eat three times his size, but before he knows it Akaashi has plowed through at least five whole meals and half of the sushi Bokuto didn’t feel like finishing. Being with Akaashi is sort of like watching a whirlwind in the least likely of places; he pulls on Bokuto’s arm when Bokuto slows to a stop, walks away when he doesn’t like a deal, and gives Bokuto the widest smile he’s ever seen when they sit along the river to eat more.

They stay there in silence for what Bokuto slowly realizes is too long; the low spring sun filters in over the water, casting a faint golden halo around Akaashi’s hair. Faintly, Bokuto wonders if Akaashi thinks of him as a friend.

“Bokuto,” Akaashi starts, “this was nice.”

“Well, you ate almost six meals, so it better have been!” Bokuto jokes, knocking their shoulders together.

Akaashi gives him a half-hearted glare, but lets out a sigh. After a quiet moment, he presses his hand against Bokuto’s, almost like a question. With a gulp, Bokuto hesitantly laces their fingers together, touches overly light.

“I’ll expect that home cooked meal soon,” Akaashi says, voice low.

It takes a few seconds for Bokuto’s voice — or brain — to jump start itself. His heart beats loudly in his palm, and the cool breeze suddenly feels too warm.

“Only if you don’t mind the possibility of Konoha and Tsukki barging in,” he tries to keep his voice light, but it cracks at the end.

Akaashi hums. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

It takes a few moments before he adds, “as long as it’s good food.”

Bokuto gives him a blinding grin.  
  
“Good.”


	3. Swing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is... fashionably late. College has been really kicking my butt in terms of workload, so finding time to write was difficult. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments/kudos so far, it means a lot! And another thank you to my wonderful girlfriend for being my beta reader ♥

Konoha tells Bokuto that they’re going to start practicing with Akaashi’s band next week.

He’s pacing across his apartment, drumsticks in hand, tapping against the wall as he walks back and forth through the living room. Tsukki has told him to shut up twice, and Konoha threatened to confiscate anything Bokuto can possibly make noise with, but he can’t quell the anxious lump in his throat.

(“I’m not that good, am I,” Bokuto mutters, head between his hands.

“Bokuto,” Konoha says, exasperated, “you are amazing. Everyone thinks that. _You_ know that.”

“I don’t,” Bokuto argues back.)

He wishes he could see Akaashi right about now, but Bokuto doesn’t want him to know about his _moods_ , and how rapidly they swing from one to the next. Akaashi might like him less for it.

The thought makes something twist hard in his stomach.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A large studio is the last place he expects to find himself, but apparently Akaashi’s quartet only practices in style. It’s _nice_ , light wooden floors clean and instruments polished; his own sound fine but have more visible signs of wear from the years. Bokuto feels his jaw drop.

Akaashi and Kuroo greet them like they aren’t staring in awe at the dramatic bump up from practicing in a dark garage for years, where there’s only one light source: a dim lightbulb. It’s a contrast to the room they’re in now, wide paneled windows filtering in warm sunlight through sheer white curtains.

“We need to upgrade, or I’m leaving,” Tsukki hisses to Konoha.

“We can’t afford _this_ ,” Konoha frantically whispers back.

“Tsukki, the life of a musician is hard and we can’t expect—where was I going with this?” Bokuto starts, focus being ripped out of him thread by thread as his eyes follow Akaashi across the room. Tsukki just groans.

“It’s a long story,” Kuroo says, and they all jump at their conversation having been heard. “We got lucky.”

He punctuates the end of the _lucky_ with a curling smirk that makes Tsukki’s face fall so quickly Bokuto thinks Kuroo may take the record for it.

“I’m still impressed!” Bokuto exclaims, “we definitely don’t practice like this.”

Kuroo shrugs, rolling his shoulders a few times before sitting down besides his music stand. “I don’t question how Akaashi does things.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says in a small voice, attention once again brought to Akaashi, who's changing a few chords on Kenma’s sheet music with Shimizu.

“He has a nice day job,” Kuroo continues, raising an eyebrow.

Bokuto tries not to intimately recall last month, when he and Konoha sat at their dining table counting out every last dollar they’d earned in tips to make rent.

“I’m a waiter,” Bokuto says, slightly miffled that Akaashi beat him in employment.

“Don’t worry man,” Kuroo shoots Bokuto a wide grin and a thumbs up, “me too!”

“Really?” Bokuto gasps, sliding into a chair next to Kuroo’s. “That makes me feel like I haven’t lost completely!”

“There never was a competition, Bokuto—” Tsukki cuts in, but Kuroo is already talking over him.

“I know. We plebeians can’t possibly match up to Akaashi, who wears a _real_ suit to work everyday—”

“Kuroo, I can hear you,” Akaashi raises his voice just slightly, and Kenma stifles a laugh.

“A suit?” Bokuto continues on, excited, Akaashi’s voice a faraway call in his head.

“A suit,” Kuroo echoes, and that shit-eating smile is back on his face. Bokuto catches Tsukki dragging his hands down his face in exasperation.  
  
“So,” Bokuto fidgets with nervous energy, “what does he look like, exactl—”

Konoha whacks Bokuto on the head, and he instantly shuts up.

“Bokuto’s such a chatter mouth,” Tsukki says, voice thick with fake sweetness, “isn’t he just—”

Tsukki pauses, then takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself, “—charming.”

Konoha snorts, covering his mouth quickly with his hand. “Such a sweetheart,” he echoes, trying to inject the same sort of judgemental high swing into his speech, but he bursts into laughter at the end, and it ruins a bit of the venom that Tsukki already had mastered.

Bokuto pouts, visibly deflating in his seat. “That wasn’t very nice,” he mumbles, feeling heat crawl up into his cheeks.

“Aw, cheer up,” Konoha places a hand on Bokuto’s shoulder. “You brought us here, after all.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, whacking Bokuto’s back once. “You got great bandmates. Don’t be too down.”

Bokuto looks at Kuroo’s face, searching for insincerity; he doesn’t see any, and perks up instantly, launching himself out of his seat and into a story from his, Konoha’s, and Tsukki’s college days. He likes Kuroo already.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The overall composition of their combined band is a bit awkward — Kenma and Konoha have to switch out on piano, and they don’t have enough players to be considered a jazz orchestra; with Bokuto jumping between multiple instruments, their transitions are floundering at worst, charming at best.

It's not  _all_ bad, though, because Bokuto quickly learns that not singing with Akaashi isn’t a terrible thing. Shimizu has a stronger presence than Bokuto expects, and her deep voice commands attention in a way that surprises him — he didn’t remember her being this captivating when he watched them on stage. He catches on quick enough, though, following her lead with a seriousness that makes Akaashi raise an eyebrow at him, a small smile on his face.

Bokuto just grins back.

Akaashi’s entire band has strange quirks that excite Bokuto in a way he didn’t expect, but he thinks Kuroo’s antics are the most fun. He hasn’t met someone to match him when he takes off on crazed improvizations, but Kuroo follows him with a wild look in his eye that has Bokuto laughing, his drumming becoming more and more wild. This is what he _wanted_ , someone just as willing for a challenge as him—

His thoughts are interrupted when Kuroo swings towards the front, next to Shimizu, giving her a wink before he spins, nearly losing his balance before recovering with a flashy kick of his leg. Somewhere behind Bokuto, Kenma scoffs from where he’s sitting, watching instead of playing this song, but he ignores it in favor of whooping in Kuroo’s general direction. Bokuto wants to stand up and _dance_ , wants to show Kuroo exactly who he’s messing with. His hands twitch, impatience gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

Kuroo stops playing for a second, giving Bokuto a wicked look and beckoning him forward with a curl of his fingers. Bokuto gives up on humility and slams on the cymbals before rocketing himself out of the footstool. Kuroo is only asking for it, after all.

He distantly hears Tsukki sigh, Konoha muttering something about Bokuto needing to be a _bit_ more suave than that; Bokuto feels too high on adrenaline to care. He dances around their group in a circle, leading Kuroo with him. He moves closer to Akaashi, who rolls his eyes, but Bokuto doesn’t miss the sweat on his brow and excitement settled deep into his expression.

Yeah, Bokuto _really_ likes this.

_It don’t mean a thing —_

Bokuto glides his hands across Akaashi’s shoulders, swinging him back and forth, earning a warning glare. He feels confident, however, and ignores it in favor of bothering Konoha next, who is used to accommodating when Bokuto harmonizes at the other end of the piano. Konoha is grinning, now, eyes flashing like he wants to get up next.

— _if it ain’t got that swing —_

Konoha drags Bokuto out before the song ends, pushing him into a waltz before spinning them faster and faster around the room. Tsukki can’t hold back a bark of laughter, notes briefly tapering off as he sputters around the mouthpiece of his sax.

Akaashi seems to have given up on any semblance of control, and lets out a loud sigh before beginning the end of the song.

_Don’t mean a thing —_

Konoha lets go of Bokuto, letting him twirl further before stumbling, vision swimming uncomfortably. He registers that Shimizu has stopped singing and everyone else is playing the final notes of the song, but he feels like he’s _flying_ , still—

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says, voice low and quiet, and Bokuto jolts, jumping up.

“Uh—”

Akaashi is silent for a moment.

“Nice dancing,” he finally says, leaning his bass up against its stand.

“Thanks,” Bokuto says lamely, as grandiloquence has always been his strong suit. Akaashi’s face is surprisingly soft, amusement strung out through his smile, and it’s all Bokuto can do to keep the ear-to-ear grin off of his face.

Kuroo pats Bokuto on the shoulder, cutting him off before he can say anything else, and holds his sax up high. “We make a good team, man.”

Bokuto throws a fist in the air, turning away from Akaashi before he can be any more distracted. “Hell yeah!”

“You shouldn’t have provoked him, Kuro,” Kenma calls, and Kuroo chokes on his laughter.

“It’s called reading the mood!”

“You were just looking for a chance to goof off,” Shimizu points out, slightly disgruntled.

“Don’t gang up on me!”

“You have to get them to join you!” Bokuto exclaims, patting Kuroo on the arm. “Like Konoha!”

Kuroo gives Kenma a pointed stare, but Kenma looks down and becomes immensely interested in his hands.

“Akaashi danced with me,” Bokuto says, shrugging. “So I don’t get why they don’t with you.”

“He did?” Kuroo echoes, shooting Akaashi a look that Bokuto can’t interpret.

Akaashi freezes as though he’s been caught in the act.

Silence rapidly falls over the room, and Bokuto fidgets nervously. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kuroo says, but the wicked grin is back, and Akaashi groans softly. “I’m sure you were a _great_ teacher, Bokuto.”

“I mean, we just waltzed—”

“Kuro, stop prying.”

“C’mon, don’t say you aren’t interested!”

Kenma looks genuinely contemplative for a few seconds.

Konoha and Tsukki come up behind Bokuto, each of them placing a hand on his shoulder before gripping hard.

“Now Bokuto,” Tsukki says, and the sarcastic high-note to his voice cuts through Bokuto like a knife, “isn’t that a bit too much information?”

“Yeah, _Bokuto_ ,” Konoha echoes, the vice-grip on his shoulder speaking more than his words ever could.

Bokuto shuts up fast, and Akaashi visibly relaxes, letting out a quiet exhale.

Kuroo looks mildly disappointed, but he lets it go, shrugging before becoming preoccupied with putting his music in his bag. Konoha and Tsukki let out a sigh of relief, pulling Bokuto away to work on cleaning everything up.

Bokuto steals glances at Akaashi while they store things away, wondering if him dancing really is as big a deal as Kuroo made it out to be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Bokuto,” Akaashi whispers, and his mouth is so close that goosebumps rise on Bokuto’s skin when he speaks. “Walk me home?”

Bokuto flails a bit before answering, gripping Tsukki’s saxophone case tightly. “Yeah. That’d be— really nice.” His voice cracks and rises louder than necessary at the end, causing a few heads to turn. Akaashi’s expression shifts from calm to exasperated at the drop of a hat.

“You can’t stay quiet, can you?”

“It’s really hard!”

“It’s fine,” Akaashi waves his hand. “It’s part of your charm, so to speak.”

“My charm?” Bokuto waggles his eyebrows.

Akaashi groans. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Kuroo isn’t going to let me live what you said down,” Akaashi muses, rubbing his hands together before breathing on them. It’s one of the few rare cold nights in spring, and Akaashi’s breath comes out in white wisps before fading, curling upwards at the end.

“Sorry,” Bokuto laments, wanting to whack his past self. “I didn’t know, I, I wouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s alright,” Akaashi says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “They did leave us be at the end, I suppose.”

“You didn’t want Kuroo to know?” Bokuto asks. “I somehow end up telling Konoha and Tsukki everything.”

“He … teases.”

“You don’t like teasing?”  

“Not from certain people,” Akaashi laughs dryly. “He means well, but sometimes it’s a bit ahead of the game.”

“Ahead of the game, huh.”

Akaashi gives Bokuto an amused look. “Yes,” he says, and Bokuto gulps.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“What is?”

“Being ahead of everything. It means he can tell where things will go, right?”

Bokuto feels his heart beat, incessant, in his throat.

“Hm,” Akaashi mutters, speculative. “I suppose not, since he normally predicts what I want.”

“I like Kuroo,” Bokuto swings his arms over his head, a bubbly feeling welling up in his chest. “He’s fun. And he matches me. When I dance, I mean.”

“You two are an interesting pair. I’m glad you got to meet.” Akaashi walks a bit closer to Bokuto, letting their shoulders brush.

“Did you like it?” Bokuto bumps their hands together, and the giddiness feels like it’s overflowing, now. “When I danced and sang!”

“I always have, Bokuto.” Akaashi reciprocates the touch, leaning slightly onto Bokuto’s side. “You’re an eccentric person.”

“Does this mean we can get coffee again?” Bokuto takes a leap in the dark.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow, at the same spot?” Bokuto links his arm with Akaashi’s, trying not to break into a sprint. He feels more energetic than normal, like a thousand things are rushing into him at once.

“That sounds nice. Except maybe we should get dinner, this time.” Akaashi clutches Bokuto a bit tighter, a shiver passing through him. Bokuto thanks every deity in existence for the unusually cold weather.

“Do you want me to cook—”

“No. Like a restaurant.”

 _Fuck yes_ , Bokuto’s brain helpfully supplies. “Uh, like—”

“Instead of coffee,” Akaashi continues, “because you don’t like it.”

“Is this formal? With suits?” Bokuto skips once, twice, before slowing.

“No.” It didn’t seem to be up for debate.

“But you _will_ let me see you in one, right?”

“Not if the date doesn’t go well,” Akaashi threatens, and for a split second the dangerous look Akaashi levels at Bokuto has him actually worried.

Bokuto doesn’t respond right away, dread making him feel cold. Akaashi snorts. “I’m kidding,” he says.

“Akaashi!”

“Sorry.” He didn’t seem sorry at all.

They reach Akaashi’s apartment complex too quickly for Bokuto’s liking— it’s a struggle not to pout when they walk up, Akaashi digging around in his book bag for keys. Akaashi lives in a nice part of town, Bokuto notes; while his building isn’t overly fancy, it’s a step up from where he’s lived for years.

“Can you come by at seven tomorrow?” Akaashi says, eyebrows furrowed together as he finally drags his keys out.

“Where are we going? Is it somewhere nice? What type of food—”

“You’ll see.” Akaashi gives Bokuto a small smile, kissing him on the cheek before opening the gate.

Bokuto resists the urge to bring a hand up to his face, right where Akaashi’s lips had been. “Bye—” he starts, but Akaashi is already through the door of the building, out of sight.

He hopes that “out of sight” is far enough away that Akaashi doesn’t hear him whoop and jump in the air, running down the street.

 

 

* * *

 

  

“So it’s your second date,” Tsukki reiterates. It’s the fifth time he’s said it this evening.

“First!”

“Bokuto, from what you said about your coffee shop adventure, it ended up with him learning that you embarrassingly don’t like coffee and eating five lunches plus yours,” Konoha says from the stove. The oil sizzles loudly, almost drowning out his words. “That sounds like a typical ‘Bokuto first date’ to me.”

“That was _one time_ in college!”

“Either way,” Tsukki waves his hand, and he looks momentarily disgruntled when his stomach rumbles, impatient. “It’s good that you finally got over your awkward shyness when it came to Akaashi.”

“Even so — Tsukki, he’s too good for me,” Bokuto despairs, resting his forehead on the table.

“Bokuto, you’re an amazing musician,” Konoha says, voice level and practiced. Bokuto knows Konoha has said this speech enough before that it’s become a mixture of habit and genuity, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that. “Akaashi knows this. _We_ , your bandmates in particular, know this.”

He drops a plate of chicken and salad in front of Tsukki before continuing. “Don’t worry about it so much. He obviously likes your quirks.”

It takes a few moments of shoveling food into his mouth before Tsukki responds, a bit of lettuce poking out from his mouth; dressing drips from his chin to the wooden table. “You did well at practice today, anyways,” he mumbles. “We complain about your improvs, but they’re always good.”

Konoha pushes a bowl of food in front of Bokuto with a grin, and Bokuto takes it with a sheepish smile. “You’re the best, remember?”

“I’m the best,” Bokuto repeats, and he sits more upright in his chair. Konoha rubs Bokuto’s head, moving back over to the frying pan.

They eat in silence for a few minutes before Bokuto breaks it, shifting in his seat.

“Akaashi’s band doesn’t live together,” he exclaims. Tsukki jumps slightly in surprise. “Is that normal?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Tsukki says. “Akaashi seems better off than we are.”

“It’s time for us to get a real job, Bokuto,” Konoha laughs.

“Tsukki is a _music_ teacher.”

“More of a real job than catering to rich people.”

“They tip well, okay?” Konoha snaps, grumbling into his food. “Well, most of the time.”

“Back to what I was saying!” Bokuto slams a hand down on the table. “The whole team dynamic comes from us always being together!”

“You mean the bickering,” Konoha interjects.

“Or the baby shampoo Konoha keeps on buying that no one actually wants to use,” Tsukki rolls his eyes. “It smells awful, too.”

“It does make your hair soft, though.” Bokuto rubs his chin.

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” Konoha grumbles, looking embarrassed.

“We live together.” Tsukki shrugs, like it all makes sense.

“It’s cheap!”

“ _Too_ cheap,” Tsukki corrects.

Bokuto wonders if Akaashi’s quartet ever feels lonely, or if he’s the only one that thinks he could never live without his bandmates.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Konoha coughs, steering the conversation away quickly. “What did Akaashi say about what you’re doing?”

“He was kinda mysterious,” Bokuto says, voice lowering as if whispering a secret. “But no suits, he said!”

He crosses his arms over his chest for emphasis.

“So it’s dinner,” Tsukki interjects, grabbing Bokuto’s now empty plates and piling it on his, crossing over to the counter.

“But I don’t know what _kind_ of dinner Akaashi was thinking of—”

“A black button down,” Konoha claps his hands together. “That will make you look suave.”

“Really?” Bokuto jumps up out of his seat, knocking the chair backwards with a loud _bang_.

“Yeah! That’ll completely cover up anything stupid that you say.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

Tsukki laughs from the sink before turning on the water, drowning out the rest of Bokuto’s complaints.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bokuto doesn’t think he’s felt more fidgety in his entire life as he hovers outside of Akaashi’s apartment building, swaying back and forth on his feet. He tries to remember Konoha’s peptalk, the way Tsukki brushed his hair before he practically leapt out the door, but any previous calming method is failing him. There’s buzzing energy in his legs, and he taps out the waltz he and Akaashi danced to for the first time against his thigh.

And when he finally spots Akaashi walking toward the gate — _God._ Akaashi isn’t handsome in an overly conspicuous way, but he walks with a quiet elegance and confidence that knocks the air out of Bokuto’s lungs. He’s wearing his typical performance clothes, curly hair surprisingly tame, but there’s something _new_ about it now.

Briefly, he realizes that he’s never felt this strongly about anyone before.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto calls, waving an arm high. He feels lightheaded, and he can’t fully control the wide grin spread across his face.

“Hello,” Akaashi laughs lightly, running a hand through his hair. He unlocks the gate and walks right up to Bokuto, opening his arms.

Bokuto blinks before the realization hits him — oh, a hug. Akaashi wraps his arms around Bokuto’s neck, a shiver running down his spine when he feels Akaashi’s quiet exhale against his ear.

“You’re surprisingly punctual,” Akaashi notes, voice as nonchalant as ever when they separate. It’s so typical _Akaashi_ that Bokuto has to bite his lip to keep his face from looking any more ecstatic.

“I happen to _always_ be on time.” Bokuto reaches for Akaashi’s hand, twining their fingers together. “So, where are we going?”

A mischievous look passes through Akaashi’s eyes, and he raises an eyebrow, squeezing Bokuto’s hand. “You’ll love it.”

“I will?”

“It’s a bar,” Akaashi says, leading Bokuto down the sidewalk.

“A bar.” Bokuto repeats, slowly. “Akaashi, we’re always at bars, though.”

“It’s a special one.”

They turn onto a commercial street, Akaashi weaving them through commuters with practiced ease. There’s a slight skip in Akaashi’s step, today, quick and almost hurried; Bokuto wonders if he’s nervous or impatient.

“Bokuto.” Akaashi stops suddenly, and Bokuto almost runs into him. “Now, I’m going to have you promise me something.”

“Uh—what?”

“You aren’t going to tell anyone about this.”

“Konoha and Tsukki…” Bokuto trails off.

“Konoha and Tsukishima are okay.” Akaashi fixes him with a serious look. “I mean _Kuroo_.”

“What are you going to do? What are we—oh.”

Bokuto follows Akaashi’s line of sight to the restaurant they stopped in front of, staring at the paper taped to the window.

‘ _Open mic night_ ,’ it reads, in cheery, bright red font.

Bokuto opens his mouth to let out an excited shout, but Akaashi is already rushing to interrupt him.

“This is our thing, okay?”

“Okay, yeah, that sounds great, this is already _so_ amazing. I can’t believe this is what you were talking about!” Bokuto rambles, almost tripping over his feet to get through the door.

Akaashi follows him with a quiet snort, tapping Bokuto on the shoulder lightly before he can barrel past the hostess.

“Reservations, remember?” he reminds, and Bokuto stops in his tracks, giving Akaashi a stiff nod.

Bokuto has heard of this bar before — Konoha mentioned playing here once, briefly, but Tsukki had deemed the stage too small for Bokuto’s rowdy style of performing. Bokuto agrees, now, seeing the small raised wooden section at the back of the bar dedicated to only a mic and a small music stand. A drum set, a guitar, and piano sit behind it, covered with a cloth.

Akaashi tugs on his sleeve, signalling for them to follow the waitress; she leads them close to the stage, slightly past the bar on the left. Bokuto glances at the liquor bottles briefly, recognizing a few names that Akaashi likes.

“Well?” Akaashi asks when they sit down, flipping idly through the menu. The dim light casts shadows on Akaashi’s face, sharpening the corners of his cheekbones, the dark line of his eyelashes.

“This is amazing,” Bokuto says in awe. “You know me so well already.”

Akaashi laughs for the second time that night, and it rings repeatedly in Bokuto’s ears. “I’m glad you like it. I was worried, honestly.”

“Why?” Bokuto asks, looking around. “I’m going to like anywhere you take me, because it’s you!”

Akaashi shifts in his seat, silent for a moment. When Bokuto glances back at him, he notices the dark red blush blooming on his cheeks, and the sight floors him.

“Akaashi, you’re—”

“Stop it,” Akaashi grumbles, covering his face with his hands. “You surprised me.”

“You basically tell me you’re going to serenade me,” Bokuto can’t keep the smug smile from crawling onto your face, “and you get embarrassed by me being honest?”

“You’re very earnest,” Akaashi mumbles. “I sometimes forget that.”

Akaashi hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Wait, who said I was going to serenade you? I don't _have_ to sing.”

“It’s open mic night!”

“This might just be part of my secret ploy to get you to serenade _me_.”

“You didn’t have to take me here to get me to do that!”

Akaashi hums, pausing when the waitress circles back around to order a drink. The restaurant has filled steadily while they were talking, a few people hovering by the stage.

“Are you going to go?” Bokuto asks.

“After a drink,” Akaashi says. A small round of applause scatters around the room as the first person of the night steps up by the mic. Bokuto watches Akaashi tense, fingers curling into fists on the table. “Or two.”

“Alright,” Bokuto concedes. “Then tell me how you met Kuroo.”

 

 

* * *

 

  

A few drinks transforms itself into almost two hours of banter and four plates of food, three of them consumed by Akaashi.

Akaashi tells Bokuto about his odd adventures in college with Kuroo—Bokuto asks how many schemes Kuroo has pulled Akaashi into, but all he gets is a smug stare—to his day job, a financial manager at a bank. When Bokuto comments that music and finance seem to be the polar opposites of each other, Akaashi seems unfazed.

“It pays well,” he says simply, bringing his third—fourth?—drink up to his lips. A flush settles heavy on his cheeks, blossoming down the line of his throat, visible now that he unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

“Do you always drink so much?” Bokuto asks.

“When I’m nervous, yes,” Akaashi says. The heavy smoke hanging in the air makes makes his expression look wistful, pupils blown wide.

“That makes me feel a bit better,” Bokuto laughs. “That I make you nervous.”

“That, and…” Akaashi nods towards the stage, where a woman is belting out a song Bokuto stopped paying attention to.

“You don’t have to sing, you know,” Bokuto says. He feels flattered, or maybe embarrassed; he can’t stop squirming under Akaashi’s gaze, heavy and intense and honest.

“I want to.” It’s simple, the way Akaashi says it, like it’s something obvious.

Bokuto gulps as Akaashi walks up to the stage, taking the woman’s place with something that looks like practiced ease. He adjusts the mic to settle comfortably above the piano, and just like that, he’s playing, not a minute after he left their table.

Akaashi’s singing isn’t fancy — it didn’t have all the deep lows and highs that Shimizu’s possesses, the confidence from years of experience, but it is genuine in a way that makes Bokuto’s heart feel light, fluttering against his will. He’s rusty, too, evident by the crack in his voice when he strains to hit a note, and he stumbles over the lyrics once or twice. Still, Bokuto can’t look away.

_The way your smile just beams —_

Oh, Akaashi is singing to _him_ , Bokuto belatedly realizes, feeling frozen in place. The piano is angled away, but still faced forward enough that when Akaashi looks up from the keys, his eyes can skid over Bokuto, proud and maybe just a bit flustered. Akaashi jumps slightly when Bokuto smiles back at him, skipping over a note, and the thought that he is able to have an effect on Akaashi, it’s — exhilarating.

_The way we danced till three —_

Akaashi settles into himself more as he goes along, hands moving faster across the piano keys, voice a bit louder and more pronounced. There’s a magnetism in the way Akaashi gets into his short performance that makes Bokuto realize what Kuroo meant, when they first met, about Akaashi’s particular style of singing.

Akaashi doesn’t stop for a pause when he transitions into his last song, leaning back away from the mic. There’s a slight swing in the way he moves his arms, now, proper form thrown into the wind; it’s almost strange to see, because Akaashi is nothing if not meticulous and proper when he plays. A symbol of strict education when he was young, maybe. Bokuto isn’t sure. This Akaashi is different, though — he’s bouncing his leg to the rhythm and shaking a bit in his seat, eyes wide and intensely focused.

It’s hard to connect the wild, carefree Akaashi he’s seeing now to the one he always pegged to be forthright and pensive.

A loud applause breaks out when Akaashi finishes, standing up to bow. His face has regained some of its composure, but Bokuto sees the sweat along his forehead and how he blinks quickly when he catches Bokuto looking at him, excited energy palpable as he walks back to their table. He doesn’t make a move to sit down, at least not quite yet, and fiddles with his fingers instead.

Bokuto can’t do much more than stare in awe.

“That was—” Bokuto starts, loud and high. “Akaashi, that was _amazing!_ You didn’t tell me you could do all that.”

Akaashi laughs, enough that his entire body shakes; Bokuto doesn’t think he’s ever seen Akaashi so breathless before. “Adrenaline,” he says. “Though I messed up a bit.”

“I barely even noticed!” Bokuto almost bounces out of his seat, downing the rest of his soda in a single gulp.

“Do you want to leave?” Akaashi asks, voice breathy.

“But there are still people up—” Bokuto says, but cuts himself off when he sees Akaashi’s desperate stare. “Okay.”

Akaashi gives Bokuto a shy smile.

 

 

* * *

 

  

“Tell me an embarrassing thing about your bandmates.”

They’re walking back from the bar, much later than they expected to. Bokuto is almost fidgeting in an attempt to not skip down the dark waterfront.

“Bokuto, somehow, I don’t think that will make you very popular with them.” Akaashi raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t show any other expression.

“I’ll tell you something funny about me in return! Gotta be fair, of course.”

Akaashi stops, and when Bokuto turns around, his eyes are wrinkled at the sides in amusement.

“Kuroo sings in the shower.”

“Akaashi, that’s pretty normal.”

“No, I mean he composes full-on musicals. Shakespearean adaptations and everything.”

“Huh. Wait, that’s actually pretty cool.” Bokuto walks closer, and Akaashi reaches out to lace his fingers with Bokuto’s. If Akaashi feels Bokuto jolt in surprise, he doesn’t mention it.

“Now you.” Akaashi squeezes Bokuto’s hand.

Bokuto stares at their hands, trying to find his voice. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before giving up, shooting Akaashi a helpless look.

“I really like you,” Akaashi says. He looks happy enough that Bokuto briefly considers telling him that he thinks all the secrets of the universe lie in Akaashi’s smile.

“I was fine staying friends, you know,” Bokuto blurts out. “I still think you’re amazing.”

“Me too,” Akaashi admits.

“I wanted to take you on more dates first,” Bokuto rambles, “and I still don’t know that much about you, and I haven’t even hung out with Kuroo more even though I’ve _wanted_ to, he’s awesome, and I just—”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi interrupts, tilting his head up slightly. He leans closer, Bokuto’s eyes widening in surprise, but the world fizzes out when Akaashi’s lips meet his. Bokuto is quickly filled with an instinctive urge to lean forward, press against him for more; he feels his hands twitch and move to Akaashi’s back.

Akaashi pulls away too soon, leaving Bokuto stunned.

“That’s alright. Let’s just call it a day,” Akaashi breathes out, cheeks colored a light pink, and Bokuto wonders if he’s imagining the slight waver in his voice.

Bokuto swallows once, hard, then nods, letting himself be pulled gently down the sidewalk.

 


	4. Chef

Akaashi is quiet on the walk back to his apartment.

He hasn’t let go of Bokuto’s hand, and he looks happy in a way only Akaashi can; his eyes are wide and slightly glazed over, a skip in his step that even Bokuto doesn’t miss. Every few minutes, he steals a glance at Bokuto with an expression Bokuto can’t fully understand, like he’s seeing something completely new.

It’s warmer than it was a few days ago, making Bokuto’s thoughts twirl in his head too fast for him to pin them down. There’s a hazy, dream-like expression on Akaashi’s face, and it does nothing for his nerves. He feels like the end of a glass of liquor, heaviness settling deep in his limbs in a mixture of lead and something light.

“Do you want to come over?” Akaashi asks, and his voice comes out in a whisper, even if they’re the only ones in the street. Bokuto gulps, clutching Akaashi’s hand a bit tighter

“Yeah,” he says, but he thinks Akaashi catches the flicker of nervousness in his expression, because he slows, walking next to Bokuto instead of pulling.

It’s comforting to have Akaashi near him, something that surprises Bokuto more than he expected—but he supposes that everything he has with Akaashi is still unknown. Advice that Konoha and Tsukki gave on what to do if he Akaashi invited him over flashes once, twice in his mind before fading, out of reach. He groans, a bit more audibly than he expects.

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says, voice still low, “are you alright?”

“It’s just—” Bokuto begins to stop his incoming rant, but his mouth takes off before his brain can leap in, “I’m _nervous_ , you know? ‘Cause I guess you like me and all and I can’t remember Konoha and Tsukki’s advice, and they _always_ help me in situations like this, but they didn’t help me think of what to do if you invited me to your apartment afterwards. And I’m really bad with words, you know, that’s why I perform, because it’s different when I’m singing, I guess?”  

Akaashi doesn’t laugh, which would surprise Bokuto on any other day— now, he just feels relieved. “That’s fine. I prefer it if I’m talking to you, not to Konoha’s advice.”

“Tsukki’s, too.” Bokuto rubs the back of his neck. “He gets mad when I don’t credit him.”

“Tsukishima, too, then.” They turn the corner onto Akaashi’s block. “You don’t have to feel nervous with me, you know.”

“I like you, though, Akaashi! Of course I would be!”

Akaashi doesn’t respond for a few moments, and Bokuto fidgets, electricity buzzing beneath his skin

“I’m… really glad.” Akaashi finally says, and the sincerity in his voice stuns him.

“Really?” Bokuto’s face breaks out in a wide grin.

“Is that so surprising?”

“I mean, you’re always so composed, like—” Bokuto squints his eyes, trying to imitate the professionalism that he did not contain an ounce of, “‘Hello, sir, would you like a loan?’”

“I… don’t sell loans, Bokuto.” Akaashi pulls out his keys, unlocking the front gate. “I manage finances, in the simplest sense.”

“Loans are _sold_ ?” Bokuto wonders aloud, letting himself be pulled into Akaashi’s apartment building and through the lobby to the stairs. “Can you manage _my_ finances?”

“I can think of a lot nicer things to do with you than crunching numbers,” Akaashi grumbles, looking slightly off-put but nonetheless amused.

“Whoa.” Bokuto’s eyes widen, and he spins Akaashi so they’re facing each other. “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

“I—” Akaashi furrows his eyebrows. “I have been. For weeks.”

“Oh.” Bokuto pauses, blinking a few times. “You have?”

“That’s why Kuroo was so shocked I let you teach me how to waltz,” Akaashi groans, shrugging himself out of Bokuto’s grip to open the door to the third floor. “It’s not like—”

It’s rare to see Akaashi struggle for words; Bokuto watches the swell of his shoulders, the hurried gnawing on his bottom lip, and affection surges through him, quick and overpowering.

“—it’s not like I’ve been subtle,” Akaashi continues, and it snaps Bokuto out of his reverie.

Akaashi pushes open the door to his apartment, and the smell of coffee and whiskey hits Bokuto before anything else does. His living room is full of calculated messes—a seemingly empty kitchen with the exception of bottles of alcohol and bags of coffee, a pile of folded jackets spilling onto the floor from the couch, sheet music spread hastily over the dining room table. There’s a large record collection in the corner of the room, shelf after shelf filled to the brim; Akaashi follows his line of sight, and flushes ever so slightly red.

“It’s a bit messy,” Akaashi says, sheepishly, shrugging off his jacket to hang it up.

“It’s better than when Konoha forgets to do the dishes,” Bokuto starts, still trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s in _Akaashi’s apartment_ after a _date_ and that means—

“So,” Akaashi breathes out, spinning around to face Bokuto. His voice wavers, at the end, and his eyes slip to the ground between them. “Can I kiss you again, Bokuto?

“Uh—” Akaashi presses Bokuto against the door, face inches from his, and his heart lodges in his throat.

“Hm?”

“You’re not really fair,” Bokuto pouts, bringing his hands up to cup Akaashi’s cheeks. Akaashi leans against Bokuto’s palm, a small, smug smile playing out on his face.

“Am I now?”

“You’re really—” Bokuto huffs in exasperation. “You know!”

“I play perfectly fair,” Akaashi mutters, voice trailing off as his eyes focus in on Bokuto’s lips.

Bokuto takes the hint, and leans in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bokuto realizes that before, he always thought of Akaashi as a script, something that was followed and exact—something that was planned. A calculated climax, a timed finish with clockwork tempo, just like his music. Bokuto could have sworn Akaashi spun him into it, somehow; his world, his rules, his three beat measure, accented whenever he wants to.

The new emotions in Akaashi’s eyes play on rewind in his head, now. How Akaashi played piano at the restaurant, eyes closed and shoulders thrown back. The way Bokuto caught Akaashi looking at him, when they danced, nervousness and confidence playing out as pride, in his smile.

Akaashi’s fingers are moving, even now, against his thigh with his free hand, composing endlessly, and it’s anything but poised. Bokuto doesn’t remember when Akaashi pushed him against the couch, slotting into his lap with barely a trace of embarrassment, but his lips are on his neck, kissing lightly, and he feels heady and dazed.

There will be marks tomorrow, and Tsukki will comment on it in joking tone that only he can do. Konoha might —

Akaashi breathes against Bokuto’s collarbone, and a shiver runs down his spine, showcasing itself in a jerk that has Akaashi reeling back in surprise. He stares at Bokuto with wide eyes, as if trying to hold himself together, before a quiet laugh escapes from him. A few moments pass before Akaashi’s attempted composure bubbles over into silent laughter, his shoulders shaking as he covers his mouth with his hand.

Bokuto stares, awestruck, numbering off the times he’s seen Akaashi smile, trying to engrave the image in his head. He doesn’t get what’s going on—isn’t sure he ever will, with him—and it takes a minute for him to wonder if he should feel insulted.

“Why’re you laughing?” Bokuto asks, cheeks puffed out.

Akaashi watches him, and bites his lip. “Nothing. You’re just—”

He runs his fingers through Bokuto’s hair, tugging slightly at the ends, and Bokuto just about melts on the spot. “—funny, I guess.”

Bokuto perks up, wrapping his arms around Akaashi’s waist. “You think so?”

A look of surprise passes over Akaashi’s expression, a light flush coming up to his cheeks. Something clogs in Bokuto’s throat, cutting off his easy access to air; if his chests heaves with effort, Akaashi doesn’t comment. He’s used to having Tsukki and Konoha ground him, but with Akaashi, it’s like he feels—

“From the beginning,” Akaashi mutters, honestly.

— _weightless._

Akaashi doesn’t pull away when Bokuto leans in for the third, fourth time, thinking maybe this is going too fast, but then Akaashi rolls his hips down and lets out a shuddering breath, gripping Bokuto’s shoulders with the hand strength only a musician can have, and Bokuto thinks that it’s okay.

It’s really, really okay.

 

 

* * *

 

   
  


Bokuto wakes up alone, splayed awkwardly out on the couch, the threat of falling off imminent. His skin feels sticky, like he’s covered in sweat, or smoke, or _Akaashi_ —

He sits up, slowly, memories loading in bits and pieces. Akaashi isn’t anywhere to be found, seemingly having moved to his room at some point, but Bokuto still feels his fingers at the back of his neck, the base of his throat. He feels unstable, fidgety, and not quite sure what he’s supposed to do now.

Bokuto flops back down on the couch, covering his eyes with his arm. Akaashi’s apartment smells warm, of coffee with a hint of chocolate. It reminds him of the type of coffee beans Konoha likes, and the same kind Tsukki despises. But Akaashi is different, like trying to fight through water instead of gliding, and that anxious realization drives him off the couch to the kitchen for something to occupy his hands.

Which is completely empty.

Breathing out a huff of frustration, Bokuto scours the fridge and cabinets. Eggs, possibly too old to use—he should check. Whiskey in three different cupboards, coffee in another four. The only other thing he finds are two sweet potatoes and a small container of almonds, both of which have a _please eat, love Kuroo_ sticky note on them.

Bokuto can’t help but think about how Konoha would absolutely lose it over the idea that Akaashi is a grown-ass man incapable of feeding himself. The thought amuses him as well, because Akaashi is nothing if not the most put-together person he knows.

The eggs are good—they don’t float when he puts them in water. Searching for Akaashi’s singular pan leads Bokuto through every part of the kitchen until he finds it, in a drawer next to the sink. It looks clean, brand new even, and Bokuto has a brief, delusional hallucination of Akaashi actually being able to survive on an awkward mixture of only stimulants (caffeine) and depressants (alcohol).

He hears Akaashi before he says anything, the quiet shuffle of feet over the sizzling of eggs on the stove, a loud yawn and the banging of a cabinet, presumably looking for a mug. Without thinking, he stands up a bit taller, every part of him alerted to Akaashi’s presence. It’s something Bokuto only feels when he plays—the sort of instinctive alertness that fails him any other time.

Akaashi wraps his arms around Bokuto’s torso, peering over to look at what’s cooking; it takes every piece of self control Bokuto possesses to not jolt in surprise.

“You didn’t leave,” Akaashi whispers into Bokuto’s ear, and Bokuto does jump slightly, this time. “You’re even in the same clothes.”

“It was late,” Bokuto mumbles, “when we—when you fell asleep.”

_You fell asleep on me and I didn’t want to move you_ is the underlying connotation that Bokuto knows Akaashi did not miss. It becomes instantaneously difficult to focus on the eggs and sweet potatoes in front of him.

“I’m glad,” Akaashi continues, either blissfully unaware of the effect he has on Bokuto or irritatingly smug, “that you stayed.”

“Because I’m making breakfast?”

“Would you leave if I told you that was part of the reason?”

“No,” Bokuto says, but pouts anyways. “It’s my selling point.”

Akaashi laughs lightly, pulling back and crossing over to the coffee machine.

“You even brewed coffee. I’m guessing you learned by making it for Tsukishima?”

“Konoha.”

“You know,” Akaashi muses, and Bokuto shuts off the stove in time to hear Akaashi place a mug on the countertop, “the last thing I expected when I saw you and Konoha dancing for the first time was this.”

“This…?” Bokuto pushes the food onto a plate, handing it to Akaashi, who takes it gratefully.

It occurs to him that Akaashi talks more, now, as if letting Bokuto into a secret part of him he didn’t show to just anyone. He wonders if it’s too early for this kind of domesticity, but finds that he doesn’t care. He gave up that train of thought the night before.

“You. In my kitchen.” Akaashi says, setting down into one of the island’s stools.

“Your _empty_ kitchen,” Bokuto corrects, dumping the rest out for himself. “And you did—you did say you wanted me to cook for you.”

Akaashi hums, expression flat; Bokuto just barely catches the way his shoulders relax and shudder, ever so slightly, at the first bite of food.

“It’s new,” he eventually says, when Bokuto takes a seat across from him. “Someone making me breakfast after awkwardly sprawling out on my couch for a night.”

“ _Akaashi!_ ”

“Bokuto,” Akaashi says, and his tone is deeper, this time; the abrupt change of it startles Bokuto, who drops his fork with a loud clatter against the ceramic plate.

“Have you—” he starts, as if steeling himself, “ever thought about going back to school?”

The question surprises Bokuto more; he blinks a few times, trying to register the question. A few things pop into his head instantly: imagining it so many times while working late shifts with Konoha, always being pushed back to next month, next month— wanting it but being too scared to try.

“I mean, I—” Bokuto fumbles, feeling at a loss. He sees Tsukki’s disgruntled face and Konoha’s furrowed brows simultaneously, and it stops any words on his tongue.

“It’s just a thought,” Akaashi continues, reassuring now that he’s noticed the storm it brought up to Bokuto’s expression, “since you talked so highly about wanting to be a maestro.”

“It’s just a big transition, you know?” Bokuto says, shoveling the rest of his food in his mouth. Through scrambled egg, he blurts out, “I don’t think so, not yet.”

“I see,” Akaashi says, softly, twisting his fork through the sweet potato on his plate. He watches Bokuto avert his gaze, staring at everything but Akaashi’s face, and drops the subject.

Akaashi doesn’t bring it up again—not for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> This ... apparently is the culmination of five years of being obsessed with jazz, but it also might just be an excuse to write a classy HSM au. As always, constructive criticism and the like is welcomed and appreciated.
> 
> Talk to me on [tumblr](http://nishiuras.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/karasunos)!


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